


Selecting a Spot

by hopeless_romantic_spoonie



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Confident Loki, F/M, Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, shy reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:49:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21512557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopeless_romantic_spoonie/pseuds/hopeless_romantic_spoonie
Summary: As the new intern for Tony Stark, it takes a while to establish a routine around Stark Tower. That is thrown to the wind when you accidentally sit in Loki's favorite reading spot.
Relationships: Loki (Marvel)/Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 184





	Selecting a Spot

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of my follower celebration drabbles (half of which are basically full-length one shots) on Tumblr. The prompt was: I wanna request one where Loki is living in stark tower as punishment for New York. Reader is living there too working as an assistant or something and gets really nervous/flustered around Loki. He finds out about her crush but shes to nervous to even touch him, somewhere along he uses the phrase You can hold my hand it’s ok when he catches her looking at his hand/retreating after trying to reach for it. FLUFF! Maybe a kiss?

Most of your time spent in Stark Tower was bustling around after Tony Stark himself. Your nose to your phone as you took notes, made appointments, and generally took care of the mundane aspects of his life that the genius of a man was too distracted or busy to do for himself.

But, occasionally, you were given a chance to take a breath, gather your thoughts as you tried to unscramble the distracted flurry of Mr. Stark’s. Your favorite place to do so was in the vast library on the recreation floor. It was almost guaranteed to be empty, and the plush furniture, warm wallpaper, and comforting scent of old books soothed your frazzled thoughts.

You dumped your belongings, comprising a stylish messenger bag loaded down with snacks, reusable water bottles, pens, notepads, a tablet, and various jagged corners of paper onto the overstuffed couch beside you. A fatigued sigh passed through your lips, and you kicked off your shoes to tuck your feet beneath you, swiping the tablet onto your lap and grabbing a few of the scribbled notes from the bag at random. When Mr. Stark couldn’t remember to tell FRIDAY to send you a message, he would just jot it down on whatever he could find, accounting for the edges of receipts, napkins, and even the corner of a calendar littering your lap.

You captured your bottom lip between your teeth, making a pile of deciphered notes next to you as you either plugged them into his schedule or sent off an email with the information contained on them. It was tedious work, but you were exhausted, so you didn’t mind it.

“That is my chosen seat.”

You stilled at the low, rich voice, slowly drawing your eyes open from the bright screen. Loki stood in the doorway, eyeing you with the barest hint of disdain with his arms crossed over his broad chest.

You knew that he was living in the tower. You sent off communications to SHIELD informing them of the updates on Loki’s ‘rehabilitation’, usually just reports that he hadn’t threatened anyone or destroyed anything. Everyone knew by now that a being stronger than himself had forced his hand during the Chitauri invasion, so his restriction to living amongst the Avengers was considered a ‘lighter’ sentencing for his crimes. Rumor had it that he had already spent time in some form of prison on Asgard, but you hadn’t dug your nose into the gossip mill deep enough to figure out if that was true or not.

But knowing that he was skulking around and facing the towering, striking god were two entirely different things. You couldn’t brush away the instant desire that clenched in your stomach at the piercing green eyes that latched onto yours and held them. All moisture dried from your mouth, and you suddenly forgot what you normally did with your hands when you were sitting on the couch.

“Um… I’m sorry?” you managed, wincing slightly at the crack in your voice. You began gathering your belongings, shoving them hastily in your bag with no rhyme or reason.

“No, stay,” he commanded you, striding passed you to sprawl onto a tall-backed leather armchair, summoning a book into his waiting hand. “Your perfume has already pervaded the space and will only distract me.”

So, not knowing what else to do, you resumed your work, only glance at him after every other email, sitting straight-backed and scarcely breathing the entire time.

The next time you were given a chance to yourself - Tony was spiraling into a project and wouldn’t come out for days - you hesitantly retreated to the library, sitting in the corner at a table instead. You didn’t want to upset Loki, to garner the attention of his fiery gaze, but you didn’t know where else to go, either.

He sauntered in only a few minutes after you, catching your attention when he came up to your table.

“You are not sitting on the couch.” It wasn’t a question, but the furrow of his brow told of his confusion.

You pulled your pen from between your lips, wetting them with your tongue. His eyes darted to the thoughtless gesture, and you could have sworn you saw his pupils dilate and his nostrils flare in response. Clearing your throat, you shrugged as nonchalantly as you could manage. “You said it was your favorite spot.”

He nodded once, turning on his heel and walking away. You barely caught his quiet response of, “That does not mean that you are required to move.”

And thus began the odd relationship between you and the God of Mischief. Anytime were given a break, you went down to the library, kicking off your shoes and settling into ‘Loki’s’ spot. He would come in not long after, pulling a book from thin air or summoning one to him, and sit on the other side of the couch. An entire cushion separated you, but it still felt so close. You’d cast glances at the elegant slope of his nose, the tick of his temple as he thought or the chiseled edge of his jaw as he tilted his head to the side.

You knew he was watching you, too. The weight of his gaze was almost a physical sensation, traveling over your skin and setting fire in its wake. It was a challenge to pretend that you didn’t notice. Surely he noticed the jump of your pulse in your throat or the way your hands shook as you sorted through scraps of paper and sticky notes. He said nothing, though, thank goodness.

But, after one evening, instead of taking up his mantle on the other end of the couch, he sat down right beside you after moving all of your various bits and bobs to the coffee table in front of you. The length of his thigh pressed into yours, warm and firm. You froze, shoulders tense, hand hovering over your tablet as your brain tried and failed to compute the sudden change in your routine.

“You come back to this room time after time, knowing that I will come.” He shifted his torso to face you, his arm coming up behind you on the back of the couch.

You gripped the tablet tightly, needing it to ground you and give your hands something to do. Somehow, you found enough courage within yourself to look up at him, offering no reply but a small nod.

He didn’t say anything, searching your face with narrowed, calculating eyes that seemed to see right through the terrible attempt at a calm facade you put on. He sighed lightly, pulling his arm back into his lap, a book winking into existence in one of his hands.

You tried to work, you really did. But it was so hard to focus on anything when his free hand curled on his leg, so close to yours, and the enticing aroma of his cologne slowly washed over you. It was masculine, spicy and clean and earthy, drawing you in just as much as his beauty did. Would he be a man that would take being called beautiful as an insult? Risking a glance at the thoughtful purse of his lips, you thought not.

He closed his book with an air of finality, shoving it onto the couch behind him before taking your tablet and giving it the same treatment.

“Look at me,” he commanded, not unkindly.

You instantly did so, eyes wide.

“Your heart beats faster when I am near you, and I am not mistaken in having heard your breath just catch in your throat. Your hands flex and shake in turn. I know you do not fear me, or you would not have returned.” He drew a long finger down your arm, making goosebumps raise over your skin.

“No,” you whispered, afraid your voice would betray you if you spoke any louder, “I don’t.”

“Then you desire me,” he concluded, mischief settling in the twinkle of his eyes and the grin tugging on his lips.

You couldn’t answer that. Couldn’t admit that you, just a regular woman interning in Stark Tower, had a crush on the handsome god gazing at you. He was intimidating, cunning, graceful, each movement filled with carefully restrained power.

“You do not deny it.”

You dropped your eyes to where his finger stopped at your knuckles, tracing over the ridges in slow circles that would quickly drive you mad. Your stomach tightened in a knot, either of desire or anxiety, you weren’t sure. Honestly, probably both. All of your senses kicked into overdrive at his rapt attention of your every movement and facial expression.

His long raven hair tickled over your face, and you closed your eyes just in time for his lips to caress yours. He was sweet, both in taste and touch, softer than you expected for such a fierce, domineering man. But there was nothing ferocious about the almost chaste kiss, or the warmth that flooded through you and loosened each muscle in your body.

“You desire me,” he repeated in a whisper, the words brushed across your lips, his forehead resting against yours.

“I do.” You couldn’t deny it. You stared down at his mouth, breathing him in as your hands itched to hold his, wrap in the soft fabric of the sweatshirt he wore, tangle in his hair, _anything_. He was right there, well within reach, but some tiny part of you was still too timid to take that step, to touch him of your own accord.

“You may hold my hand, if you would like.” His hand skated over yours, fingers lacing together in a comfortable fit, palm calloused and warm against yours. “We have already kissed, after all.”

The light teasing in the rich timbre of his voice broke the tension of the moment, and you tilted your head back, laughter tinged with relief spilling from you. He chuckled along with you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling your head into the crook of his neck.

You felt comfortable, content and safe, in this new spot, encased in his strong embrace, his mouth anchored to the top of your head and your hands splayed across his back. This was much, _much_ better.


End file.
